“My Lord will pardon me for observing,” said the Archbishop’s voice, “with a royal kinsman of his own, that God may grant him many kingdoms, but he can never have but one mother.”
The Duke’s answer was in his haughtiest manner. “I assure you of my regret, holy Father. Necessity has no law.”
“And no compassion?”
“Jean, my Jean! Only one minute more—one minute cannot be of importance. My little lad, my best-loved! lay thy lips to mine, and say thou lovest thine old mother, and let me bless thee, and then go, if it must be, and I will die.”
Amphillis wondered that the piteous passion of love in the tones of the poor mother did not break down entirely the haughty coldness of the royal son. The Duke did indeed bend his stately knee, and touch his mother’s lips with his, but there was no shadow of response to her clinging clasp, no warmth, however faint, in the kiss into which she poured her whole heart.
“Jean, little Jean! say thou lovest me?”
“Madame, it is a son’s duty. I pray your blessing.”
“I bless thee with my whole heart!” she said. “I pray God bless thee in every hour of thy life, grant thee health, happiness, and victory, and crown thee at last with everlasting bliss. Now go, my dear heart! The old mother will not keep thee to thy hurt. God be with thee, and bless thee!”
Even then he did not linger; he did not even give her, unsolicited, one last kiss. She raised herself on one side, to look after him and listen to him to the latest moment, the light still beaming in her sunken eyes. His parting words were not addressed to her, but she heard them.
“Now then, Du Chatel,” said the Duke to his squire in the corridor, “let us waste no more time. This irksome duty done, I would be away immediately, lest I be called back.”